


Walk of Faith

by vissy



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen, family ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-01
Updated: 2004-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vissy/pseuds/vissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Zvi’s Family Ficathon.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Walk of Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Zvi’s Family Ficathon.

Neville was just a titch, but he wasn’t stupid, so when Uncle Algie suggested they take the lift up to the top of Blackpool Tower, Neville dug his heels in quick smart. Uncle Algie argued that they really ought to get their money’s worth - he’d had to shell out five pounds for Neville’s admission fee, because although Neville was a titch, he wasn’t quite small enough to get in for free - but Neville was content to watch Mooky’s Magical Circus and examine the colourful Aquarium fish and listen to the Wurlitzer organ. Neville didn’t care if you could see North Wales and the Lake District from the top of the Tower. He didn’t care if you could stand hundreds of feet above the Promenade on the glass-floored Walk of Faith. Neville was just a titch, but he already knew what faith was, and as much as he adored his Uncle Algie, he didn’t have much faith in him.

Riding to the top of Blackpool Tower with his Uncle Algie was a Bad Idea.

So they wandered along the Promenade, rather than far above it, and wound up at South Pier, which was a comforting distance from the Tower. Uncle Algie shouted Neville an enormous cloud of candy floss, and they both ended up sticky and giggly and covered in pink sugar; Uncle Algie licked the stick clean before waving it at all the passing Muggles, yelling silly, made-up spells until Neville thought he might throw up from the fun of it. They squeezed themselves into a dodgem car and fought a tug-of-war over the steering wheel until they careened into the wall with a bone-crunching jolt, causing a seven car pile-up. They watched a clown make balloon animals, and Uncle Algie whispered to a captivated Neville, “They all look like bloody Blast-Ended Skrewts to me.”

South Pier was the shortest and youngest of Blackpool’s three piers, and Neville thought it was brilliant how many rides and stalls and people one rickety-looking shelf of Muggle make could hold up. Uncle Algie, who took an enthusiastic interest in all things Muggle, explained to him how the pier was made with the Worthington Screwpile System, where a steam-driven pump was used to push water down the middle of the piles until the pressure shifted the sand below and allowed the piles to sink deep into the seabed. Neville was thinking about pressure when Uncle Algie suddenly picked him up and chucked him off the end of the pier; Neville was thinking about sinking.

He hit the water with a noisy splash and flailed about for a bit until he got the hang of treading water; luckily it was summer, so he didn’t have any heavy clothing to drag him down. Eyes stinging with salt water, he struggled over to the closest pile and grabbed hold of it as best he could. It was crusty with barnacles and slimy with seaweed, and it was hard to know quite where to put his hands, which were cold and shaking. There was an awful taste in his mouth; he swiped his tongue over his lips, finding rotten fish and rubbish instead of the sweetness of candy floss. His left big toe stubbed up hard against the pile, and he realised with dismay that he’d lost a sandal; Gran would not be pleased. He waited patiently for Uncle Algie to fish him out, and tried not to cry too much. A wet squib didn’t explode.

Neville was just a titch, but sometimes he wondered if he was the only normal person in the Longbottom Screwpile.


End file.
